Wit Will Shine Through The Harsh Cadence

Woman's Honor Is Nice As Ermine; It Will Not Bear A Soil.

The Fates But Only Spin The Coarser Clue; The Finest Of The Wool Is Left For You.

Imagining Is In Itself The Very Height And Life Of Poetry, Which, By A Kind Of Enthusiasm Or Extraordinary Emotion Of The Soul, Makes It Seem To Us That We Behold Those Things Which The Poet Paints.

The Winds That Never Moderation Knew, Afraid To Blow Too Much, Too Faintly Blew; Or Out Of Breath With Joy, Could Not Enlarge Their Straighten'd Lungs Or Conscious Of Their Charge.

Even Victors Are By Victories Undone.